Over and Out

What’s my world come to?
It’s a rhetorical question.
If I welcomed you to my world
you wouldn’t see much different
from your own, I guess, except for the
“wouldn’t see much” part.
It’s an outwardly quiet place,
sometimes placid, others foreboding,
everywhere I look. But mostly that’s
in the mirror or in the dark above my
bed each night. That’s it, my world.
Always looking and dreaming
in the same direction…
Out.
I trust my sense of direction,
just never trusted myself to take it.
On this ledge above your world
I’ve always perched, facing out there,
sometimes dropping a sigh or a tear on you.
Sometimes I spit.
I like watching them twist and drift
before spattering the world,
where you pick them up upon your shoes,
walking through all your worlds.
I swing my shoes over the edge,
bravely dangling them in a dream
I’ve finally jumped over too,
somehow joining you on our march…
Out.

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